We’ve hung out two nights throughout the course of our lives, and both times I’ve desperately wanted to make out with you. The ironic thing is the first time we met, about two years ago, we were making fun of a couple in our group who had just gotten together and their public make out scene was vomit-inducing, at best. Fast forward 24 months and possibly 24 first (shite) dates, and we were again thrown together at said couple’s wedding.

I forget the exact reasons I didn’t make a move the first time around, probably some combination of the following: I don’t operate that quickly, we were with some of your extended family, I’m kind of a p-word. This time around though, the reason was far clearer: I can’t play the rat race that happens at weddings. Sure, I’ve been to some where there are seventeen single females looking to make out, but this situation was entirely different. You were literally the only eligible female at the event (not entirely true, but the other two I’m thinking of are in that friend zone).

From the rehearsal dinner on Friday night onwards (my speech alone should’ve been enough for you to want to tear my clothes off…I kid, I kid), it was clear that I would be competing with approximately a dozen single men for your attention. Perhaps if I didn’t know anyone else at the wedding my mindset might have been different…but there were about 75 people I knew there, and a good chunk of them I actually wanted to see (this is exactly the opposite of what happens when I go to the bar most weekends). Maybe if I was guaranteed at least a boob grab or something I would’ve made more of a concerted effort. I guess I just don’t see the point of spending all night at a wedding with some cool people pining after one girl’s (even if she is cute & fun) attention.

Is that abnormal? That I’d rather spend times celebrating with my (pseudo) family & friends than shower you with affection? Is this a sign of a bigger problem. If so, I might be f*cked, and not in a good way.

Oh, out of curiosity, if I had approached you somewhat early on Saturday and said, “listen…I’m not going to join in the competition for you, but just know that I’d love to make out later on if you want to,” what would you have said?

I had a nice time the other night, I really did. For a first date/second meet up ( a 20 minute beer doesn’t really count as a date, does it?). We sat at the bar, enjoyed a couple tasty beverages, some delicious food, and talked continuously for about two hours. We covered a wide variety of topics, ranging from incredibly awkward first dates, weird exes, and what the chances of Geno Auriemma & Pat Summit having some kind of sexual relationship and when they berate each other in public it’s all just part of their cover up. Then, after I treated, I walked you to your car and we had a decent little makeout session considering some guy was smoking a cigarette on his stoop a mere 20 yards away.

But I got home and realized that was probably the wrong thing for me to do. Unless I completely misread the situation (and given I need this blog as a way to try to understand women, it is entirely possible I did in fact do just that), I think you wanted to make out because you are, to a certain degree anyway, into me. I, and I promise I only realized this AFTER the fact, wanted to make out…well, to make out. Since I didn’t take it any further, I don’t feel TOO badly, but there is still some serious Jewish guilt marinating in my head.

On my drive home I was psyched that our date went so sell, and I made out with someone for the first time in god knows how long. But after five minutes of reading what happened in the sports world that evening, I found myself perusing the online dating scene…and when I saw someone I had emailed had actually returned an email of her own, I was even more psyched. That made what had probably been subconsciously running in the back of my mind all night obvious…I’m not that into you.

There is no real concrete reason I can give you…you are cute, smart, funny, successful, into sports, that list goes on and on…I just know that there have been other girls I’ve been out with who after the first or second date I could care less about anyone else on the match.com site. Yes, I realize this is not dating, but I think I’ve been over this before in previous letters. I date about as well as Charlie Sheen does sober, or Rebecca Black sings. I’m either into you or I’m not…

Sorry,

Jeremy

ps – for those reading who think I am actually going to use this as a means to telling this girl I don’t think we should go on any further dates, remember this is anonymous…so she won’t actually read it. I WILL indeed tell her this in a less cowardly manner (ie text message…just kidding, calm down…at least I will use the phone).

*He’s Just Not That Into You ( I will call, by the way, you just might not be a fan of the convo…)

Going against my better judgment I am going to write my first letter in almost three weeks to my readers (again), but really it’s on behalf of myself. I say ‘against my better judgment’ for two reasons: 1. the Jewish guilt I feel for not coming up with something new in so long is really riding me hard right now and 2. I’ve released this blog to a few of my real (not twitter/blog friends who don’t actually know who I am) friends, and thus fear being harassed over how lame some of this is sure to be. But as I’ve found myself saying lots lately, f*ck it.

Basically I want to use this space as a means to offer an apology to all of my adoring fans out there. I say that with only a hint of sarcasm, because in truth I did receive many tweets, direct messages, and emails during my absence inquiring as to my whereabouts, even people claiming “I can’t get through my day without your posts.” While I think that is a bit too much pressure on myself, I appreciate the sentiment. Knowing my writing has actually meant something to at least a few people makes it worthwhile. However, blogging by nature is narcissistic, and therefore what my fans think really amount to jack shit, at the end of the day. I kid, I kid.

But honestly, I created this blog to try to discover something about myself, in a humorous (hopefully) and anonymously public manner. Now, my self proclaimed break in the action has not come because I have discovered anything, in fact, I’m probably even more at a loss for my romantic self than I was when I started last fall. However, real life has managed to get in the way, and as a result, finding someone to make out with has not really been on my radar this month.

Three things all happened at once: 1. I took on more freelance writing to pay the mortgage (which means when I have free time, writing/blogging is not exactly my favorite thing to do) 2. Tennis season started and I’m still adjusting to waking up at 5am a few days a week and 3. I realized once the summer ends, I’m going to need full time employment…and as a result I’ve actually started applying myself to job search more.

Bottom line is I haven’t been on a date in over a month, and on top of that, I haven’t even really been interested. I don’t know where I’m going to be in 6 months, and since I need to figure that out it makes trying to pursue a relationship out somewhat difficult. I would’ve thought that writing about ex-girlfriends would still be really easy, but getting mentally into the moment when I’m having a tough time about present options for make outs is harder than one would think.

But I have some good news. Not knowing exactly where I’m going to be in the near future shouldn’t really have this much of an effect on my personal life…so I think I’m going to rev up the engines again. The chances of me finding anyone who I like enough/likes me enough to alter my future are slim anyway, so like I said above, f*ck it.

I just sent you a real email wishing you a happy birthday, and of course asking you to put in a good word for me at your place of employment. But I felt kind of bad that it’s been almost a decade, so I figured it was high time I send you one of these letters as well.

We met at camp, when I was 17 or so and had absolutely no clue had to read signs from females. That sentence implies that I do now…but rest assured I’m still sort of an assclown when it comes to that. We got close, but you made it painfully clear you weren’t interested in making out or anything along those lines by hooking up most of the summer with a red-head. Way to pour salt in the wound (just kidding, I have nothing against gingers…they do have souls). But then, on one of the last nights out I found myself alone with you, both inebriated, and you gave me the most backhanded compliment of all time.

You pretty much told me that you always liked me as a friend, but weren’t attracted to me…but the more you got to know me, the more attractive I became because as everyone knows, my personality sparkles. What I should’ve done was kiss you right then and there, instead of focusing on the beginning of your explanation, where I (still) think you called me ugly. In my mind, you basically compared me to George Costanza in this classic scene (effing youtube rules…can’t embed it, but go to the 51 second mark and you’ll catch my drift).

Thanks for comparing me to a short, stalky bald man.

It’s not as if I outwardly got angry at you for calling me unattractive, I was just kind of dumbfounded. What precisely, did you want me to do with this new information? Mind you, your ginger-boy was like 30 feet away, and even though it was just a ‘summer camp relationship,’ the two of you were still together, as much as you can be. So, instead of just going for some tongue action, I stalled and stammered out,

“I kind of want to kiss you right now…” To which you responded (with a small twinkle in your eye I might add), “You don’t need to ask my permission.”

At which point, of course, Ginger walked up to us. If “Old School” had already been made, I’m sure I would’ve said, “Good talk…see you out there.” But it hadn’t, and since I rarely speak in anything but movie quotes, I just stumbled away awkwardly and left you to explain.

So, in short…I regret not kissing you, but I can’t imagine the makeout session would’ve been worth pissing off a red-head.